Moving on

April 9, 2015 § 3 Comments

“It’s not what you think, really, it’s not what you think,” he said uncomfortably as I looked him directly in the eye. The woman sitting across from Steve at the tiny dining table was dressed young. She was young. At least fifteen years younger than my husband. Beautiful, heavily-rimmed dark eyes and black silky hair, perfect chicklet white teeth. At first I ignored her, maybe if I don’t acknowledge her she really won’t be there. I felt her youthful eyes looking at me, looking at him, back at me, not knowing what to do or say. My heart is pounding rapidly as if it is attempting to escape from my chest cavity. I can’t breathe very well. I just stand there unable to move.

And then I notice it. The newspaper. It’s on the next table turned to a very small article. I see my photo…


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